


My Brother and my Friend

by limitedbycreativity



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Angst, Babies Everywhere, Baby Dís, Baby Frerin, Baby Thorin, Character Death, Family, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Gen, Pre-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-09
Updated: 2013-05-09
Packaged: 2017-12-10 21:44:37
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,170
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/790490
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/limitedbycreativity/pseuds/limitedbycreativity
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Before hobbits, before dragons, before the fall of Erebor, Thorin was an innocent Prince with a little sister, and a new baby brother.</p>
            </blockquote>





	My Brother and my Friend

**Author's Note:**

> So, this is my first foray into posting on AO3 and into the Hobbit fanfiction world. I took some artistic license with names and the childhood stage of Dwarves, but do let me know if I've got anything wrong! And please be gentle. :)
> 
> This story came about when my sister, @trulyunruly, challenged me to write a fluffy baby!Thorin fic. It delves into angst at the end because I'm an awful sister, but I hope you enjoy anyway!

The sounds of the guards’ footsteps echoed off the high marble walls of the long corridor, the heavy armour clanking as it was heaved along by the strong dwarves within.

Their little charges made much less noise, clad only in their nightclothes and wee soft boots on their little feet. The young Prince, his thick dark hair rumpled by his disturbed sleep, held onto his sister’s pudgy hand tightly. The Princess Dís was only just walking and her steps were unsteady, although she grew more confident each day.

Thorin rubbed at one tired eye with his fist, and, through a yawn, asked, “Where are we going, Fundin?”

The guard immediately to Thorin’s right glanced down, moving his axe into his right hand so he could look a the Prince unobstructed, “Yer father has called for you, yer highness,”

Upon hearing this, Dís sleepily mumbled something around the fist in her mouth that sounded like “Papa” - it warmed Fundin's heart, but Thorin didn’t seem to take any notice. “Why does Papa want us _now_? It’s dark.”

It was always dark inside the mountain, Fundin wanted to say, but he knew that Prince Thráin took his son and daughter out onto the battlement wall to see the daylight every morning so Thorin knew the morning light. If Thráin was busy, Fundin or his oldest son Balin were frequently charged with the duty. Balin had a way with the babies, and Thrór had already expressed interest in retaining him as a teacher for the little ones once Balin had completed his own studies. Thorin seemed as interested in studying as Fundin’s younger son (that being not very interested at all), but it was his duty as the future king.

“It’s yer mother,” Fundin responded to the princeling’s question, “It seems yer new sibling has made an early appearance.”

Thorin’s eyes widened, “The baby’s here?”            

 Fundin’s face cracked into a grin, and he looked fondly down at the Prince, “Aye, laddie. You have a new little brother,”

 A grin almost as wide as Thorin himself spread across his face then, and the whole party drew to a stop when he whirled to his sister and scooped her up into his short arms, drawing a surprised gurgle from the Lady Dís.

“You hear that, Dee?” he exclaimed, tottering about under Dís’s weight. Her little feet hung close to the floor as she sagged heavily in Thorin’s arms, unable to hold herself up. “We have a brother!”

Fundin eyed the other guards for a moment before reaching down and putting his hand on Thorin’s back, supporting him and keeping him from falling over and taking his sister with him.

 “Come on, son,” Fundin said gently, “Yer mother’s excited to see you,”

 Thorin unceremoniously dumped Dís back onto the floor, and turned to Fundin, holding his arms out. “We’ll move faster if you carry us, Fundy!”

 “Yer majesty, that wouldn’t be very proper.”

 “ _Fundy_.”

 “You’ve two feet for a reason, lad.”

 “ _Fuuuuuuundyyyyyyyyyyyy_.”

 At that moment, the Lady Dís began to cry, and Fundin supposed all other options were lost to him. With a world-weary sigh, he shoved his axe into another guard’s hand and scooped the Princess into the crook of his elbow – she stopped crying instantly – and Thorin was held with the other arm.

 “Follow me, boys,” he called to the guard, taking the lead now. Being the head of the City Guard had its bonuses, and they definitely made better time with both children carried.

Two guards were posted outside the Princess’ bedchamber, and when he saw Fundin approaching with his little charges, one of them turned and knocked quietly on the wooden door. Fundin had time to draw up to the door before it opened, and then Prince Thráin emerged in a heavy, embroidered robe, looking drained, tired, exhausted and happy.

“Papa!” Prince Thorin exclaimed, reaching eagerly for his father. Lady Dís had fallen back to sleep on Fundin’s shoulder.

“My boy!” Thráin took Thorin into his arms and kissed the crown of his head, seemingly not aware of his audience or simply not caring, before depositing his son onto the floor, “I’m sorry you were woken so early,” 

“Do I have a new brother? Truly?” Thorin was practically bouncing in excitement, and both Fundin and Thráin smiled at the sight.

“Truly.” Thráin told him, before reaching for his girl. Dís murmured as she was passed from guard to father but did not wake.

“Thank you for bringing them here safely, Fundin.” Thráin addressed his guard, “You ought to go to bed.”

“I will remain on guard for this special night.” Fundin insisted. Thráin tucked his daughter safely against his chest.

“Go and rest, and take tomorrow too,” he instructed, “Spend it with your sons and wife. If there is one thing tonight has taught me, it is the importance of our families.” 

Fundin wanted to say that his primary obligation was to the Crown and his King, but in truth he had not seen much of his wife and children in days, and it seemed wee Dwalin was growing faster and faster every day, and so Fundin inclinded his head in agreement and left the Royal family to meet their newest member.

Thráin took Thorin’s hand and led him into the bedchamber. The King had been woken the moment it became apparent the baby would be born that night, and had already met his newest grandson, and now it was time for Thráin’s little family to unite again. His wife, the Princess Consort Maola, lay abed, having been cleaned and changed and freshened, with only the sweaty sheen to her skin and thick hair testament to the laborious process that had brought forth her newest child. A serving girl had braided the Princess’ damp blonde locks and it hung, long and gleaming, over her shoulder. The moment she clapped eyes on her oldest son, her face split into a broad grin and she spread her arms wide, laughing as her son sprang up onto the high bed and crawled into her embrace. 

“Mama!” he exclaimed, hugging her tightly, “Mama, you are much flatter than before!”

Maola couldn’t help the surprised giggle that bubbled forth, and even Thráin rumbled in amusement. “That is because the baby has left my belly, my little prince. He awaits your approval over there.”

She nodded towards the cradle at the end of the bed, but considering his earlier excitement over a new brother, Thorin seemed disinterested once distracted by his mother.

Maola tucked Thorin into her side as she sat against the headboard, and gestured for Dís to be placed at her other side. The girl grumbled as she was jostled and awoke. The high-pitched shriek of delight she let forth at the sight of her mother prompted a splutter of surprise from the cradle that quickly morphed into loud wailing. Both Thráin and Maola grimaced, which Thorin and Dís stared down the bed with identical looks of shock and abject horror on their faces.

Thráin scooped up a bundle of blankets and held it close, whispering quietly and soothing. The cries lessened into whimpers, and he began to move towards his family but stopped short when both Thorin and Dís cringed away.

“What is it?” he asked, confused.

“Is it going to make that noise again?” Thorin asked, eyeing the bundle suspiciously. Thráin laughed aloud.

“Your brother is just a baby, my boy. Crying is how he communicates until we teach him that there are other ways.” he explained, sitting down beside his heir. Only Maola’s hold on Thorin kept him from clambering over her to cower beside Dís.

“Have a look,” Maola prompted gently, peeling the blankets away from the baby’s face. Thorin peered in, no less suspicious, and found a little red face staring back, large night-sky blue eyes gazing out of it and a little pink mouth pursed in displeasure. He had little hair, save a tuft of sandy blonde fuzz on his head. 

“He’s going to take after you, my wife,” Thráin whispered reverently, stroking the fuzz with his smallest finger. He turned his head and gazed at his older children, who both looked so like him with their dark hair and electric blue eyes, and the famous Durin temper. He hoped his youngest would be more like his wife, both with her fair hair and blue-grey eyes, but also her easy-going nature and sweet temperament.

“He hasn’t much hair,” Thorin finally grumbled.

“Nor have you!” Maola retorted, even as she ran a hand through the thick, dark hair that already hung down around Thorin’s shoulders. Absently, she ran a thumb along the beginnings of sideburns framing Thorin’s face, grinning when he turned a glare inherited straight from his grandfather on her.

“He’s just a baby, give him time,” she said fondly, dropping her forehead to rest against his. Thorin huffed a breath and turned back to the new baby.

“Would you like to hold him?” Thráin asked. Thorin nodded, and, after a moment of rearrangement, in which Maola showed him how to properly hold an infant and rearranged the shape of his arms, the baby was placed securely in his little arms.

Thorin did not remember meeting Dís for the first time, nor holding her, but he was older now, practically a grown Dwarf he thought, and knew he’d remember this moment as he cradled his baby brother. The baby’s frown had disappeared and instead he looked curiously up at his brother, and Thorin tightened his hold on the little, heavy weight in his arms as they studied each other.

“We’ve named him Frerin,” Maola told him, “Your brother, Frerin,”

“Frerin,” Thorin tried it out, feeling it in his mouth for the first time. He had inherited an old name, a traditional name, a suitable name for the future King of Erebor. Frerin was a name from stories his Mama had told him, a fairy-tale name. Thorin liked it.

“Hello, little brother,” he whispered in a voice quiet enough his parents would not hear it.

(He hoped)

(But they could)

“My name is Thorin, but you can call me ‘brother’.”

Maola met Thráin’s eye over Thorin and they smiled widely at one another, before turning their eyes back to Thorin cradling his younger brother.

Thorin would cradle his brother many times like that during the early stage of Frerin’s life, proving to be a wonderful helper to his mother as she cared for the baby. Frerin would grow into the easy-going, happy Dwarf his father had envisioned, complete with a mischievous streak that he thought probably came from Maola’s side of the family.

(Maola, however, insisted that it was a _Durin_ mischievous streak.)

As he grew, the physical displays of affection between brothers grew more and more rare, although the strong love and the bond that had been forged on Frerin’s first day of life would never waver.

Once more would Thorin cradle his brother like he had cradled the newborn; on his deathbed, following the Battle of Azanulbizar. _It is an ironic twist of fate_ , Thorin would think at the sight of Frerin's lifeblood pouring from his wounds, _that his and Frerin’s first meeting would so mirror their last_.

Frerin’s blue eyes would meet Thorin’s and he would attempt a smile, although it comes out more a grimace. Simultaneously, Thorin would feel a stronger ebb of blood flow from Frerin’s body and he dully notes that the haemorrhaging was getting worse.

“I think this is it for me, brother,” Frerin would whisper, his breath harsh and fast. Thorin – not often an emotional exhibitionist – would blink back the tears in his eyes, feeling the heavy weight of his brother in his arms and cradling him the way Mother had taught him to years ago.

Thorin wants to promise that he will live, that they will be helped, but never in their lives has Thorin lied to Frerin and he will not start as Frerin’s life comes to an end.

Frerin’s body would finally begin to grow cold and his final words would be, “Goodbye, big brother,” in a cruel echo back to Thorin’s first words to him. As Frerin lies in his brother’s arms, the smile that was so often present on his face in life still there in death, Thorin would finally cry, and yell out wordlessly in anger and grief. He would grow hard and bitter, from the loss of the mountain and the loss of his family, and even the births of his nephews would bring him as much pain as joy, because one was blonde like _him_ , and the other had the cheeky smile Thorin had last seen frozen in death, and both were funny, mischievous and reminiscent of the brother Thorin dreams about every night and misses every day.

But they were not to know that all of this would come to pass, Prince Thráin and Princess Consort Maola, as they watched their eldest child cradle their youngest. And it was better that none of them did.


End file.
